Pretty
by EleanorK
Summary: But that didn't mean she still didn't look at herself after a shower, see her body as it was, and wonder if it was all gone. The time of freshness and beauty, all used up and tossed away. Time to settle on practical tasks. There wasn't time to be pretty. But pretty wasn't the only thing of value she had, she thought, standing up and heading toward the wing where Daryl's cell was.
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't a prison anymore; it was a small city. There was water and food and teams and clipboards and people she had never even met. There were days when she didn't see Judith or Beth or Rick. There were nights when she was called to help someone sick whose name she hadn't learned.

One night it was a girl. A little younger than Sophia had been when she died. She was feverish and vomiting. Carol worked with another of the women who had been a nurse; they changed sheets and brought fresh water and brought the girl outside into the fresh air, wrapped her in cold sheets. Medicine was scarce and rare and had to be rationed, even in this city they had built.

It wasn't cold out, but the girl shivered. The nurse lady went to see Herschel about some herb thing he had; Carol hadn't wanted to wake him but allowed the nurse would know better.

She sat in the courtyard, looking at the razor-wire topped fences. It was a small one, far from the yard. She held the girl across her lap and sat on a long bench, where people sometimes came to sit and watch others play basketball.

In this city, people could do that. Play basketball, or watch it. Mostly kids, and not all the time. But still was a kind of success.

And there were stars up there, beyond the wire on the fence. Way up in the night Georgia sky. That hadn't changed. It was quieter than it had been and the dark night was soaked with stars. More than she had ever noticed.

She'd been a woman who sat out on the back stoop late at night, looking at stars. With a crying baby to keep from waking Ed. With her face swelling from bruises or tears. With a glass of sweet tea if she had a minute, after cleaning up. After everyone else was in bed.

There were stars and they looked small. But they were actually gigantic, enormous, whole other worlds. And though they were full of fire if you could ever get close enough, they were pretty to look at.

The little girl moaned, chewed at her lips. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Carol dabbed it with a bandanna from her med shift smock.

"What's your name, honey," she said to the girl's closed eyes.

But she didn't answer. Just swallowed and shivered and shook her head.

Carol waited for the nurse lady. Told herself she'd ask the woman's name. Get acquainted, even though that wasn't always worth your time these days. Rubbed the little girl's shoulders, felt the heat radiate off her through the damp sheet. Looked at the stars.

* * *

The nurse lady's name was Abby and when she came back with Herschel's herbal stuff, Carol could already feel the girl cooling down and she had become a little more aware, asking Carol questions - "where are we? is it the middle of the night? does anyone know we're here?" - and Carol felt bad for having to make the girl drink down the herbal gunk in a cup of hot water.

Abby held the girl's head up and lifted the cup to her mouth, slowly tilting it to get her to sip it, while she grimaced and frowned and gagged. Carol remembered Sophia throwing up one night after a birthday party at a friend's house, how she held her tight and positioned the silver mixing bowl in her lap and pulled back her daughter's soft, soft hair.

When Abby had given her the whole cup, the girl started crying, but it was the soft crying of defeat. Carol murmured in her ear while Abby wrapped her in a fresh cool sheet: "It's all right, just let it settle, that's right, you're going to be okay. Just wait; the medicine's in you, already starting to work..."

Both women huddled around the girl until they could hear her regular sleeping breaths; then Abby swaddled her up and stood up.

"You take her to sleep," Carol said. "I'll handle the rest of the shift." She patted the walkie-talkie on her hip and nodded at the matching one on Abby's hip. "I'll hand them both off in the morning."

Abby didn't ask if she was sure; just handed off the walkie and slipped inside. Carol turned off the walkie so she didn't drain the battery and then sat for a while in the courtyard. Stars, again. Her clothes were damp from the sheet and the breeze was cool. She took off the smock and draped it over the bench to dry a bit.

"What you doing up?"

Daryl. In the courtyard. Holding a rifle and an apple.

She almost stood up but then he sat beside her, the gun between his knees. She explained about the little girl, whose name she'd never gotten, and how Abby had taken her to bed.

"Who?"

She laughed. "Other person on med duty," she explained.

"Oh." He bit into his apple. Then he looked a little sheepish, like he should have offered her some.

She shook her head. "I've just dealt with vomit, Daryl," she said. "I don't feel that hungry."

He nodded. Kept eating. But he felt unsure, she could tell. They weren't hungry, not anymore. But neither were they overfed like before the turn.

"Dunno how you handle those sick people," he said at last, tossing the core into the brush on the other side of the fenceline. "That shit just annoys me. Freaks me out, too. Little kids crying."

She shrugged. Looked up at the stars. It'd been a while since she'd actually seen him; the little city they inhabited was that big now and their work was constant. She wanted to remind him of the days he'd fed Judith. Of how he'd taught Carl to throw a knife and make an arrow. How he'd cleared cellblocks of walkers and corpses so they could move in more people, especially kids. The council wanted kids; they wanted to give them training so they could be trusted. Adults were harder to handle, though they took in plenty of them, too.

"Always been good at taking care of people, I guess," she said. "Should have been a nurse. Was thinking on it, if I hadn't gotten married. My sister used to say that I was cool under pressure. Everyone else would lose their minds when someone'd get hurt but I'd just be calm."

He looked at her, shook his head. She knew he wanted to say something against Ed but she'd already shut him down on that score long ago. She didn't like to go back to those days. Not with anyone. What was the point?

"Good way to be," he said.

"My sister said that having low blood pressure and heart rate in times of crisis was the mark of a psychopath."

"Bullshit," he said. "Depends on the crisis."

"Well, what did she know," Carol said, brushing off the worn knees of her pants. "And who cares now? Maybe I am a psychopath."

"Maybe you are," Daryl replied, sounding a little like he was smiling.

"I know someone else who's pretty calm under pressure himself," she said, kicking his boot with hers.

He stood up, palmed his rifle. He didn't want to acknowledge compliments; it embarrassed him. He couldn't get over that he was held in high esteem now; he'd never said what he'd been in the other life, but she guessed it wasn't anything to be proud of.

"Well, if you're a psychopath, then you're a very pretty one," he said. "Gotta get back," he added, and then slipped away into the darkness.

* * *

The nurse lady Abby became a friend. She was originally from Florida, knew some of Carol's relatives down there. They discussed the Florida relatives as if they might still be alive. It was funny to think of people as always being dead, and it was also tiresome. If they could turn a prison into a city here, then her aunts and cousins in Florida might have done it, too.

The little girl was named Jeannette. She had a sister named Tanae who'd been out on an extended supply run who came back and thanked Carol and Abby both. A small city it might have been, but taking care of sick children warranted a word in person.

Abby. Jeannette. Tanae.

New names. The weather getting warmer, the air getting thicker. Planting for spring. Piglets being born. The creek outside the prison swelling in rain.

Carol out in the courtyard where she'd taken Jeannette that night, counting stars. Looking at the turrets manned by the watch crew. Listening to the banging on the fence, a kind of wind chime in her mind, something you heard and learned to ignore.

_"Well, if you're a psychopath, then you're a very pretty one."_

It'd been weeks since Daryl has said that. She'd seen him here and there. Never stopped to talk. Never had time.

But she was ashamed to say she thought of it a lot. Often. Almost all the time.

Carol didn't think of herself like that. Pretty: that was a young girl's game. Pretty was for things that hadn't been spoiled, stamped down, worn in and rusted out. And while she was still here, and was proud of surviving, it still felt like yet another loss, the idea of being beautiful.

She didn't think Daryl had much time for anything pretty. She hadn't imagined it to be a word he'd use.

* * *

And then there they were, weeks and weeks after they'd talked in the courtyard. Abby had died on a supply run - a car accident, not walkers. Jeannette was often seen bobbling around in the yard, playing with other little kids. Tanae was training to learn medical shift stuff.

And she and Daryl were sitting beside the creek, on the other side of the fence, their feet in the water, waiting until Rick's group made it back with fencing they'd found outside a hardware store. Their job was to clear the area of walkers so the fencing could be set up right away around the creek, keeping it clear of dead animals, and walkers. The water source had to be protected; there was talk of eventually building something permanent.

Daryl wouldn't take his boots off at first. They'd already dragged off the walkers that were rotting near the creek and the grass was wet and soft on her bare feet.

"Feels good in bare feet," she said. "Quieter, too."

"I'm quiet enough," he said. But he took off his boots and stuck his toes into the water. It was hot. Summer high in the sky. She didn't know what month it was, but did it matter? It felt like July. Maybe it was June? Did the name of the month matter?

She heard a branch snap and instantly he froze, looking. She stood up, finger to her lips, motioning that she'd take one side while he took the other. His crossbow was on his lap. All she had was a knife. She wasn't a good enough shot to bother with guns. Plus, he had a gun on his hip. She trusted him to watch her back, and his, too. Daryl was that good. She hated that he had to have that burden; she wondered if he didn't like feeling so much responsibility. But there was probably no one else she'd go out of the fence with. She had felt safe with him from the first.

He was the one who ended up taking the walker down. It only had one working leg, so it wasn't a big deal. But they dragged it toward the tumble of blown-down wood they'd collected so they could burn it with the other walker bodies they'd cleared.

Then, more waiting. Birds flittering through the trees. Sun high and bright. Nothing on the walkie from the crew. Daryl bent over and washed his hands in the creek water. She couldn't resist; with her toe, she tapped his ass and he almost fell into the water.

"Hey!" he yelled.

She laughed. He shook his head at her. Then, when she wasn't looking, he swiped a bunch of water at her.

She screamed and then covered her mouth at how loud the sound carried. She smiled.

He laughed. "Serves you right."

"Jackass," she muttered. Then the walkie squawked and she heard Rick saying they were almost there.

She sat down, put on her boots, acting wounded, while Daryl replied on the walkie. Then she splashed him again, right in the face, just missing the walkie.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelled. "You...!"

He chucked the walkie into the grass and then they were splashing each other like little kids. Soaking wet. Mud everywhere. Her boots were wet, and she'd only buckled one on. He was still barefoot, his feet squelching into mud. She was laughing, wiping mud out of her eyelashes, scrambling to get away from him while also trying to get him back.

Then he slipped and she knocked him over and landed on top of him, his head near the creek bank, his hair flopping into the water. He gasped, like he was hurt, and she pulled back off him. But only a little. She saw how blue his eyes were, his hair out of them for once.

"You're a sneaky lady," he said. His hands clutching at her back stiffened. Then softened. Flattened against her back. His eyes narrowed toward her mouth. Her lips. She quit smiling. They were just inches apart, wet clothes between them. One of her bare feet in the cool grass, the other in its boot, braced in the mud.

She could feel his chest rising and falling, quick breaths, pressing against her.

Right here. They could be doing this. For real.

If there were fencing. If there were no walkers. Right here, this could happen.

But then he looked away, the walkie squawking again, and she jumped to her feet, away from him. Handed him the walkie, which he replied to.

She put on her other boot, squeezed water from her shirt, shook out her hair, retied the scarf that kept it out of her face. She didn't look at him for the rest of the time if she could help it, from the moment the truck arrived with the fencing and they started unrolling it and setting it up, digging post-holes, plotting out for the future.

_If there we__re no med shifts. If there were no watch crews_.

_Right there_, she thought, over and over, avoiding him, yet knowing where he was the entire time they set up the fence around the creek. Every step into the mud and the soft grass, she felt it beat through her heart.

Right there, a man and a woman could be together like God intended.

If he wanted it. If she was brave enough. If she were pretty.

* * *

That night, at dinner, she saw him sitting by Beth. Laughing, eating the same shitty rice and beans stew they made all the time. Nothing about dinner time was exciting unless there was booze. And booze was limited and restricted to certain times and certain people. This place was still a prison in that regard, city or no.

She watched him with Beth until she couldn't stand it any longer, and then got up to bring her plate and cup to the wash crew.

That night, she wandered back to the courtyard. It was cloudy; the stars weren't out. She had med shift and should be sleeping in case someone called; it was best to get rest when you could. But she kept seeing Beth and Daryl laughing.

Beth, so pretty. So young. Long hair, smooth face. Lips full. Not thinned out from years of frowning and disappointment. Body probably tight and perky, not lined and sagging from childbirth and long nights.

There was something very sad about it all, this night with no stars. There was something very sad about a grown woman in this life they were stuck with, wishing for the moon, wishing she were pretty. There was something obnoxious about feeling lonely in a virtual city, surrounded by people everywhere who could be a friend. Or maybe more. People did that, in this little fenced-in world. Shared cells. Shared beds. Shared clothes and work crew duties and smiles and a lot more. You could hear the sighing and soft laughing late at night, tacked-up sheets over the bars or no.

It was sad to begrudge people happiness in this world. It was mean and petty. Life was even shorter now; jealousy was a waste of time. A form of disrespect. Soon they'd have babies coming. The city would grow. Become stronger. She needed to find generosity in her now. She could even have another baby. She was a little old, but still. It was still possible.

But why? Just to see it die, too? Ed hadn't touched her since Sophia was born. Told her she made him sick. The feeling being mutual, she'd been relieved. But that didn't mean she still didn't look at herself after a shower, see her body as it was, and wonder if it was all gone. The time of freshness and beauty, all used up and tossed away. Time to settle on practical tasks. Time to pass by the mirror and not stare. Time to work and prove her value.

There wasn't time to be pretty.

But pretty wasn't the only thing of value she had, she thought, standing up and heading toward the wing where Daryl's cell was.

* * *

She cupped the flashlight she carried for med shifts so the light wouldn't wake anyone. She tried to walk softly; people slept so brokenly, even here, even now.

His was the only cell without a sheet or a tablecloth tacked over the bars. She was surprised at this, at first, until she thought about it. Who would go into his business, anyway? He was still stand-offish. He was still tight-lipped. And he was known for his skill in taking people out. With fists or weapons, it didn't matter.

For a minute, she hesitated to go closer. She thought for sure he'd be awake. It was hard to imagine Daryl sleeping. Daryl, vulnerable.

But she took another step and saw that he was asleep in the cell, on his stomach. His boots unlaced on the floor, feet bare. Crossbow sticking out a bit from under the bunk.

A pile of rags on the floor that were his clothes. A canteen on a chair. Nothing else.

Her own cell wasn't decorated, either. She didn't share with anyone; she didn't have to, being on the council. But she had candles and her shower kit and books and her sewing things. She had a little table she used as a desk. A notebook for a journal. She wrote down her thoughts about her days; she didn't always star-gaze when she felt bad.

But Daryl's cell was nothing but him. She thought for a moment of leaving, turning back. The idea of him owning nothing frightened her for some reason. Made her feel heavy and burdensome.

She clicked off the flashlight just at the exact moment his eyes opened.

"Carol," he said, lifting up on his elbows. "What's wrong?"


	2. Chapter 2

She felt like a deer in headlights even though she was the one who clicked on the flashlight again. Then off.

He sat up. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just pants. Bare feet.

"Carol?"

She felt like crying. She was so embarrassed. She clicked on the flashlight, pointed it on the floor of his cell, letting it lead her inside.

She stood before him, then kneeled. Put the flashlight down on the cement, the light flooding sideways. Set the walkie on the floor beneath the bunk.

He was still. Frozen. Watching her do this, he looked almost scared. She saw him swallow, then, and she knew it wasn't fear but nerves and she didn't say one thing, didn't listen to any of the rushing words in her brain - _no, no, no what are you doing? you can't, stop_ - just leaned toward his neck and kissed it.

She expected him to object. Maybe even knock her away. She braced for violence and that made her want to cry again, how long it'd been since anyone had put her in that position: waiting to be tossed away like trash. How easily she fell back into that role.

But he just took her hands out of the pockets of her med smock and held them. His hands warm and callused. Hers the same now. The nails cut short.

Would he tell her no? Be gentle? Send her away? She pictured running toward the fence and out into the woods and into the mouths of whatever was there.

He let go of her hands. His hands went up her arms, over her breasts, around her shoulders, along the straps of the tank top she wore. His fingers slipped under her chin, lifting her head.

"Come here, girl," he said.

* * *

His bunk smelled kind of bad. Like dirt and body odor and cigarettes. And it wasn't comfortable, or really big enough for even one person.

But it didn't matter. He held her so tight. She was so relieved he didn't tell her no, didn't make her leave, didn't smack her - for the love of god, would she ever get over Ed? - that she kissed him like she was trying to thank him without words.

He had a taste that was tangy. No minty toothpaste or beer breath. Just salty good. He lay back and she pressed herself over him and he just took it. Everything she gave him, he took it and took it, his hands slipping under her shirt, soft on her belly, on her back. Like he was being punished and he wouldn't fight. But he groaned and sighed. Pulled at her hips to straddle him and she could feel him, hard, beneath her.

She could have shouted in surprise when he did it; she was smiling in the dark.

"What," he murmured, between kisses. He could tell something was up. He'd always had been good at reading people.

"Nothing," she said. Kissing him harder. Trying to be normal, like they always did this. Trying to make it seem like this was nothing.

Though it was everything. It had been years since she'd made a man get hard like that, and thrilled at it, too. It had been high school. A boy named Aaron Crowther. His father ran the corner store by their house.

He kept rubbing her down on his hard dick. Kept taking her kisses. His hands threaded under her shirt, untied the med smock. God, the med smock! She looked like a mother or a cook! She tossed it on the floor and the flashlight rolled crazily on the cement, light flickering in circles around them.

He laughed, then. Low. She remembered him laughing; how long it took for him to relax and let go with it back in the early days. Why had she fallen away from all of them, the original crew? Why had it been so long?

Now he was kissing her breasts, pushing her bra out of the way to get at them. Soft. Slow. Sucking. When he nipped at one, she started.

"Sorry!"

"It's okay," she said.

"Sorry, though," he said. "I don't...You feel so good," he added. Cupping her breasts, squeezing them. Then pressing her hips to grind her down on his dick.

_Good._ Good was good. _This_ felt good. _He_ felt good. Even his scruffy beard scraping at her skin felt good.

Aaron Crowther had felt good, too. First boy she bothered to kiss more than a few minutes. They made out behind the store when he was supposed to be breaking down cardboard boxes for his dad. Aaron Crowther may have been shy, not so popular and outgoing, but he hadn't been a bad looking kid. She'd been quiet, too. It was sort of a miracle the two of them had even made any moves toward the other. But when she was sixteen, she'd not been so afraid. And she'd been pretty. Long legs, nice smile. Long hair. It was only Ed that made her cut it. Why did she still cut it?

And why was she thinking of Aaron Crowther now? And Ed?

The walkie squawked beneath them.

She jumped and pulled her shirt up. Scrambled for the walkie and listened: the pregnant lady in E Block was bleeding.

Daryl stood up as she grabbed for the med smock and flashlight. Ran his hand through his hair. He looked strange, a little helpless with no shirt and bare feet, no weapon in his hands, his arms crossed over his chest like he was cold.

"You want me to come with you?" he asked.

"No, it's okay," she said. "See you later."

* * *

The pregnant lady lost the baby.

She and Herschel and the med shift person, a guy who'd been a paramedic, couldn't do much but clean up the blood and try to keep her alive, too.

By morning, the woman was stable. Herschel prepared a raspberry tea for her when she woke. The paramedic guy went on a run with the foraging crew to look for some supplies Herschel thought might help. Carol stayed behind. Drank the raspberry tea, talked with Herschel about blood loss. Transfusions. Medicines they were running low on.

"It's all around us," Herschel said. "Everywhere. Hanging off trees. Hiding under moss. It's funny how quickly this knowledge could be lost to us. But we can get it back again. We just have to look."

She nodded. She was exhausted. She took the bloody laundry down to the washing area, which was abandoned. The day was hot and bright and a little wind kicked up. Perfect time to pin up clothes. She filled a bucket with water from a rain barrel and pitched a little bleach in it. Pushed the bloody sheets and towels down into it.

A baby was dead. Or what could have been a baby was dead. And the woman who'd lost it hadn't been much older than Beth.

She remembered spotting once while pregnant with Sophia after Ed shoved her into the dresser in their bedroom. She couldn't find a shirt he wanted. She spotted and worried and couldn't even bring herself to go to the doctor. Part of her wished the pregnancy would just end, right there.

That was not a thing a mother would ever admit. Ever. Especially the mother of a dead child.

She watched the bleached water bloom spools of blood. She remembered being in Daryl's bed, just a few hours ago. Everything felt in motion, getting away from her, like a team of horses splitting off from the wagon. Why was this happening now? Why not earlier, when the original group was so solid and tight? Life had intervened from all her earlier feelings about Daryl and Rick. Life had to be attended to, helped along, smoothed over, fought for.

_Enough with the star-gazing, you_, she thought. _No more moony nights. No more babies. No more young girl dreams. Just stop._

But that night, while she tossed in her bunk, lecturing herself, thinking the same annoying, agitating things, over and over, he came to her.


	3. Chapter 3

"Come on," he said. "Want to show you something."

She wasn't dressed, just in underwear and her tank top, but he turned while she put on her pants and boots. She saw he had no crossbow, just the knife at his belt. Probably a gun somewhere, too.

There was nothing about him that was seductive or smooth, nothing shy or coy. But after she followed him out of the cellblock and down along the first courtyard, through to the open yard where the gardens were laid out, he took her hand.

She stopped. Looked down at their hands.

"Okay?" he asked.

She nodded, and then they kept walking. She thought maybe he'd take her to the gardens, to see the animals. Then, as they turned, she wondered if they were going to the guard tower.

But no. Another turn. Were they going outside the fence?

She didn't ask, though. Just held his hand, which stayed solid in hers. Not pulling her. He was taller but he kept his pace to hers.

They went up the walkway between her star-gazing courtyard and the laundry lines where the wash crew pinned up clothes and linens. Then some stairs, crumbling, broken cement.

"Careful," he said, his hand still in hers.

Then they edged along the ledge outside of east wing of the prison, where there were still cells to clear. There were no more walkers in there, but they hadn't been made ready for people. Not yet.

Then, he stopped. "Here," he said, motioning down. "Sit." There was a flat of particle board wedged into a corner. Bolted in, by the feel. She sat down, scooted her legs up until just her feet dangled near the edge.

He joined her, after pulling something from his back. Of course - there it was, she thought, as she saw the flash of metal at his back. His gun.

"What's this?" she asked.

"My watch tower."

She looked around. There was a view, but not of the perimeter. You could barely see the yard. What you could see, mostly, was the laundry lines, swaying with white sheets.

"Not much to see from here, Daryl," she said.

"Oh, I dunno," he said. "Some people seem to find stuff to look at." He motioned toward the courtyard, the bench where she liked to sit. "Especially late at night."

_Oh my god_, she thought. She felt instantly stupid. How long had he been watching?

But then his hand touched her thigh. Palm spread soft over it. She looked up at him, her face a question.

He shrugged.

"I missed you, that's all," he said.

She kissed him before he could say anything else.

* * *

Making out in Daryl's watch tower was like making out with Aaron Crowther behind his dad's store. Hot. Uncomfortable. Cramped. Though back then, she didn't worry about falling down 30 feet into a mess of laundry lines.

And back then, she hadn't known what sex was like. And right now? Right now she wanted to fuck Daryl Dixon.

Even thinking that phrase - _fuck Daryl Dixon_ - made her reel.

And just like with Aaron Crowther, they couldn't take off all their clothes. It was all reaching in, feeling under. Rubbing from weird angles.

But she didn't care. Aaron Crowther's dad couldn't find them. Nobody could find them. And nobody could hurt them, either. Not with him here. Nobody made her feel so safe. Even 30 feet in off the ground, she felt safe.

He laid back a bit to let her hand fit better down his unbuttoned pants, and he sighed when she touched his dick.

"Good?" she asked.

"Good," he said.

"You want to?" she asked.

"Do you?"

"I'm up for it, if you are." She squeezed him down there and he groaned. Laughed.

"Oh, I'm up," he said. "Bout as up as you can get."

"I don't have anything, though," she said. Pulled her hand away. Thinking of the woman who bled, the baby who died.

"I got us covered," he said, buttoning up his pants. "Come on. You're gonna get splinters in your ass," he said.

"It feels so good out here, though," she said, re-hooking her bra and finding her shirt. "Inside, it's all stale. Air you've breathed a million times."

He pulled his t-shirt over his head.

"I know," he said. Leaned to kiss her. "But you're going to have look at them stars on your own time."

* * *

In his cell, he dug through his clothing pile. Pulled out a little pouch that looked like something a man would have kept his shaving things in, in the old world.

She sat on the bed, took off her boots and pants. Her shirt and bra. Left on her panties and slipped under his sheets. She noted they smelled fresh. Clean. Like he'd planned this.

A moment later, he started the slow strip down of his clothes. Boots. Shirt. Pants. He wore no underwear.

It was a little bit of an effort to stare at his face instead of boldly checking out his cock. There was a bit of light from the moon through the top windows, but she could see enough. She stared at his dick, swaying and hard, as he bent to tuck his gun beneath the bunk.

Then he handed her two things. Gifts. First, his knife; then the condom. She put both between the wall and the mattress and opened the sheets to welcome him. She smiled as he laid beside her. She could feel his hard dick on her thigh. She wrapped her arms around his back.

"Nice," she said.

"Mmm," he said. Kissing. Kissing and touching. His hand rubbing over her panties, then slipping fingers under them, inside of her. He pushed them down, eventually, to get at her better and while he did so she started working his cock. It felt so good to feel all of him, his skin on hers, the sweat, the smell of it. She was shuddering, it felt so good. She felt like she couldn't wait. Couldn't keep quiet. Couldn't stop all the noises she was making from his hands on her.

Finally, after she sure she might die if they didn't do it, after she'd tried to work up the nerve to tell him to do it -_ fuck me, Daryl, please_ - he was the one who asked: "You ready?"

"Yeah," she said, in a soft voice. How could he not know it? She was so wet she knew there'd be a spot on his fresh sheets. A big one.

She pulled the condom from beside the knife. He laid on his back and shoved one of the sheets onto the floor. She almost stopped him - the floor was filthy and they were strict about wasting water and time. But seeing him lying there, naked and waiting for her, made her breath hitch in her throat.

She put the condom on him and then he reached for her, pulled her so she was over him, his hands on her hips. She ducked her head so it wouldn't knock the upper bunk.

_Thank god it's dark_, she thought. She couldn't remember being on top with Ed.

But he didn't notice her hesitance. He was shifting her hips over him, his palms on her ass, notching himself inside her.

She slid down him, slowly. It'd been a while for her. She wondered if it would hurt.

"Christ," he said, once he was all the way in. "Carol. Christ."

She didn't say anything. They started a rhythm, her body bent over his, sliding up, slamming down. She was sure she wouldn't come - she had her method, proven and tested through the years - but she wasn't about to interrupt him and explain it. Or reach down and see if she could make it happen now. She just wanted to feel him in her, feel his hands on her breasts, on her hips, his lips when he reached up to kiss her. Hear his breath deepen and catch. He might go any time, the way he was groaning. His whole body was tight and tensed. She laid her hands on his chest, bucked against him harder. Wanting to feel him come. Wanting to see his face, up close, when it happened.

"Carol, I..." he said.

She slammed down on him harder and his eyes squeezed shut and his neck snapped back against the mattress and she lifted over him, feeling him shake beneath her.

* * *

He was up and moving around the cell when morning came. She rubbed her eyes. The air was thick and hot. He was naked, the sheet he'd tossed on the floor in a bunch under his arm. Then she saw him lift the sheet up over the cell door, tying the corners around the bars.

She sat up. They'd shared one blanket, which she pulled over her. Her clothes were on the floor, in his pile.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Shoulda done this last night," he said, springing down from his work. It only partially covered the door, and did nothing for sound. He had to be aware of how that noise carried; it was a kind of vanity that made people tie up sheets like this and she felt a little shy, knowing she'd sent him to that place.

He got back in bed with her, flinging the blanket off them, his mouth everywhere, his palms gripping around the small of her back.

"I need to rinse out my mouth," she said.

"No, you don't," he said.

"Daryl."

"Just hush for a minute," he said. He kissed her more - he had morning breath too - and then he slid down her belly, pausing just a minute at her breasts, and then he settled between her legs, kneeling, his ass sticking up in the air. No wonder he wanted to hang up a sheet.

She wanted to object. God knows what she tasted like at this point - it'd been a couple days since she washed, not to speak of the sex they'd had - and in the bright daylight, she didn't want to know what her body looked like. Especially that part of her. It wasn't like that part of her got a lot of attention.

The strange thing, though, was that it actually felt _good_. He was teasing her; he didn't know it, but he was: his scruffy-face tickling her sensitive parts. But the sucking thing he did! Soft and slow, just like how he kissed. And just the right amount of pressure, too. She was starting to think she might actually come this way. _Could_ come this way. She'd never come this way. Ed had only done this once when he'd been very drunk and it hadn't felt like much.

Daryl's hands curled around her hips and belly. She shut her eyes, imagining the sagging curve to her stomach, the silver and red stretchmarks that never went away. Wishing them away. Wishing it was dark again.

But then, his patience, his steadiness paid off. It was building and she thought he might stop but he seemed to know that he was getting someplace and he kept it up, that same sucking he'd settled on, and she knew it was going to happen and it made her so happy when it did: the familiar rush all through her body, and her stomach clenched beneath his hands and she wasn't thinking about stretch marks or sagging, but just stars.

* * *

When she woke again, he was standing there. Fully dressed. With a bowl of grits and a bunch of her clothes under his arm. Fresh clothes. He must have gone to her cell. She was sweating now, the heat of the Georgia day in full swing, but she still gripped the grimy blanket under her armpits as she sat up, her legs in a bow under the blanket.

"What time is it?"

"Does it matter? You got any shifts?"

"No, but..."

"You were worn out," he said. With a little sideways grin. Like he couldn't help it.

She put her hands over her eyes. He handed her the grits. She ate a few bites, as politely as she could. She was starving but didn't want to slop up food in his bed.

He sat down beside her.

"Finish it up," he said, nudging her. "We've got to go. There's a crew headed east toward that old chicken barn off the highway. I signed us up."

She spooned up more grits. He'd added honey to them.

"What are we looking for?"

"Whatever they got," he said. Shrugged. "A short run."

She nodded and handed him the bowl. He took it and set her clothes in her lap. Grabbed his gun from under the bed, then reached for his knife between the wall and mattress.

"Hey," he said, his hand sweeping over her shoulders. "Something wrong?"

She paused. She wanted to say "nothing" and shake her head. She wanted to just get up and put on the clothes in full daylight and not be upset. She saw him, sweaty and tanned, in his same old rags, putting his knife on his belt. Same old Daryl.

"I just, I don't know. I'm shy. I'm an old lady. I don't, you know, walk around naked, hanging up sheets in broad daylight." She clutched the pile of clothes toward her.

He nodded, but she knew he didn't understand. He chewed his lip a minute.

"You think I do that? Run around naked for the world to see?"

"No."

"And you think I care if they did?"

She shrugged.

"I'm gonna look at you, as long as you're here to look at. Been looking at you this whole time, even when you and I weren't like we were, before. Because I like looking at you, Carol. And not just because you're damn pretty woman."

She ducked her head, ashamed of how much his words pleased her. Embarrassed that she liked being told this much.

But he pressed his face near hers, his hands on her shoulders.

"And not just because there ain't nothing a man want to look at more than a woman all wet for him down there," he added, his voice low. His hand dipped down toward the blanket between her legs.

"Daryl..."

He pulled his hand back, set it on her knee. "I like looking at you, because you've always _seen_ me. Me: just like I am. And you never walked away."

"Well, I kind of did," she said. "Since this place grown so much, it's been different. I figured we couldn't always be the same as we ever were. Things change."

"They do," he said. "Things are always changing, Carol. That don't mean it's always for the worst."

Her eyes were watery now, but she kept looking at him, trying to be brave. Tears slipped anyway.

"Don't cry," he said. "Ah, god. I'm not good at this shit."

She smiled, wiped her eyes. "You're plenty good," she told him. Kissing his face around the places where her own tears dripped. Letting the blanket fall between them.

* * *

It was a good day, foraging at the chicken barn. Not too much hazard and nothing the group couldn't handle. A rooster and a hen came back with them, along with more fencing, some tools and buckets, wild wheat for Herschel to try to plant, some apples from the orchard, cuttings from the tree. Herschel wanted every run to look for certain plants. He wanted to rebuild it all: medicine cabinets, food pantries, tool sheds. The bricks of their lives, one by one, made new out of the old.

Tanae was with them, keeping watch while everything got loaded up. Carol asked about Jeannette.

"Little trouble-maker," Tanae said. "She's not one to listen. Just like our momma."

Carol nodded. Couldn't think of a thing to say about it. Didn't want to ask about Tanae's mother. But she liked the fight in Tanae all the same; liked the way she jumped from the back of the pick-up the second they stopped to maneuver around a tipped over semi on the way to the chicken barn. Liked that Jeannette was alive, trouble or not.

Once everything was loaded, Carol waited for Daryl. He was coming back from the barn with a couple of other guys and the light was in his eyes, his hand shading his forehead. She didn't know if he could see her, so she just stood and stared, hoping he'd put together that it was her eventually.

The other guys swerved around her and Daryl walked up to her, kissed her on the cheek.

"Hey," he said. "How're you doing?"

"Pretty good," she said, hopping a little to pace with him. They didn't say anything, just glanced back and forth the whole way, not able to hold hands because he was carrying a full gas can and his crossbow and she needed to be handy with her knife if it came to that. You couldn't be cute outside the fence.

When they got to the truck he was driving, the other two guys peeled off and found others to ride back with.

Once they got in the truck, buckled up, and started the engine, he reached across the seat for her hand.

"Ready to go home?"

"Yeah."

"Me too," he said. "Never thought I'd say that in my life."

"Me neither."

Then he turned out of the dirt road, slow and sure, their eyes up and alert for danger, always. But their hands together, linked across the seat.


End file.
